


Viking Sage

by Wolkov



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Blood and Gore, Canon-Typical Violence, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Falling In Love, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Humor, Fluff and Smut, Friendship/Love, Love/Hate, Shameless Smut, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-04
Updated: 2020-08-05
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:14:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25711918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wolkov/pseuds/Wolkov
Summary: Dhayl, older sister of Tanaruz, knows only hate towards the Vikings who have raided her home and taken her sister. She plans to exact revenge on them and take her sister back, but her plans go awry when the Viking king she has captured, Ubbe Lothbrok, reveals unfortunate truths and instead brings her to his lands—against her wishes.Ubbe Lothbrok, after the passing of Torvi, is a man alone with a heart long buried—until he clashes ways with Dhayl, a woman ready to behead him faster than his enemies. Intrigued by her knowledge of faraway lands, he decides to keep her to better strengthen his trading routes and voyages, something Dhayl resents. Or tries to.But as the two spend time together, Dhayl learning of Viking customs and ways, and Ubbe realizing new cultures and peoples, they grow rather fond of each other...but the fondness grows into a sizzling attraction both can't risk. Ubbe finds he cannot desecrate Torvi's memory, as his heart has yet to forget, and Dhayl...Dhayl finds she couldn't ever love the king of killers who took everything from her. Will they come through their differences, or will unconquered hatred and hurt destroy all they hold dear?
Relationships: Ubbe (Vikings)/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 14





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

> hey, guys! new fic. I couldnt help myself, I just love Ubbe's character so much. he holds such great potential and has one of the best character developments in the show. so. viking lovers will understand. i hope you guys enjoy it, because writing it is a thrill. 
> 
> also, the events take place a few years after season 6. i just felt it was the best option for the story.

chapter I

For a few hesitant moments, she sat in the perpetual chill of the Northern soil, doubts as brisk as the air she was inhaling clouding her mind.

Perhaps she ought not follow rash impulses and heed the devil’s tune. Perhaps she ought to be reasonable and sane, for what she was to execute was no child’s play. Perhaps she even be merciful; her father always spoke grandly the trait of forgiveness for not many possessed it. Or perhaps she ought to damn it all and off with the murderer’s head, for a terrible vengeance crackled in her blood and caused fury to beat in her heart.

Raiders, rapists, _heathens_ , fell upon her home alike a plague and left nothing but death in their wake. Blood of her neighbours. Blood of her parents. Blood of women drawn without consent and their wombs ravaged and forced to swell. How many clots of flesh had she seen being expelled from bodies? How many limbs and cuts sewn back together to give the dead a more dignified burial? How many tears spilled over bodies of loved ones, terror-struck faces with eyes carrying wounds that not even time could heal?

Yet, to her, nothing was more terrorizing than the absence of _Tanaruz_. Sweet, beautiful Tanaruz. Her blood; her heart. Her everything. She was not among the pile of bodies they left to rot; she was elsewhere, taken as a slave with the rest to serve in the land of killers.

Dhayl craned her neck to examine one especially revered killer.

They called him Ubbe Lothbrok, a _Budlungr_ , son of a famous raider king Ragnar Lothbrok. His people came for her home and ripped her loved ones out of her arms. Now, blood was due upon the blade, and she had long sharpened it for the slaughter.

At that, her anger flared, and she nodded. _They would pay_. Verdict made, she rose and grabbed a cup of icy water—and splashed it in the man’s face.

The burly man came awake with a snarl, and eyes of the clearest blue, arresting her with their colour and intensity, snapped up at her. He heaved, angrily, furiously, and lurched at her—and failed. Chains bound him to a tree, and ropes hugged his legs together in his seated position on the ground.

He was not getting a mat; he was not worthy of such comfort.

When he realized he could not reach her, he, after a moment, to her utter surprise, settled comfortably into his chains and regarded her in silence. She at the very least expected the unchivalrous display of his discontent with a spit on the ground to her feet.

‘’Hm,’’ he voiced roughly, eyes quickly giving her an onceover. ‘’You do not look helpless.’’ Studying his many traits—a skilled hunter being one—she’d bated her time in the woods when he’d ventured into them to hunt for dinner. She’d cried out, pretending to be a wounded traveller, and he’d come to her, failing to understand that the then predator was truly a tricked prey.

‘’No,’’ Dhayl said, looking down at him. Then, she crouched; her head tilted, and she returned his examination with an examination of her own. ‘’I never was. Never will be.’’ Her fingers reached for the blood trickling down his temple—courtesy from her—and smeared it down his face. ‘’But you are. Helpless, that is. Oh, you look hopeless and at my mercy.’’

False. He did not at all look the unable man she was making him out to be. Even chained and bleeding, he very much exuded an energy that could level an army in a heartbeat. She ought to be cautious; she had seen what this man could do first-hand. He had done it many times. Her, on the other hand? She’d never chained up a man before. Especially a lethal one, at that.

 _It must be done_ , she reminded herself. _And you must be strong._ Her fingers slowly travelled up and dug in to the wound. The muscle below his eye ticked at that. ‘’Did I press a nerve? I might have had. Indeed, what _king_ likes his wounds probed?’’

A soft laugh escaped his throat, and then a deeper one, though that too was short-lived. They were laughs that humoured her. She did not like it. ‘’You know me.’’

‘’Yes. I watched you for a very long time.’’

‘’Have you now?’’

‘’Yes.’’

‘’And?’’

‘’And I thought you were perfect for questioning.’’

‘’Hm,’’ came the rough response again as he tilted his head forward. ‘’If you had watched me for a very long time, then you would know better than to question me.’’

‘’Better than most. But, no, you are exactly the right person for such an act. You are exactly what I am looking for.’’

‘’What makes you believe so?’’

‘’Call it intuition.’’

Another rough sound. ‘’Mine says you are not walking out of these woods alive. I tend to harbour a strong adherence to mine.’’

‘’And I tend to wear mine around my heart. It goes off like church bells. Do you have a heart? I thought not. I win.’’

He moved his head away from her bruising touch, and sniffed. ‘’You are not from around here.’’

‘’No.’’

‘’You are different.’’

‘’Hm,’’ she echoed him.

‘’That means you do not know my people, and you do not know this land, and you do not know what you have done.’’

‘’No one will find us here.’’

‘’Something will. The sky is getting dark. You do not see it; you do not know how the sun is in this part of the world, but I do. And I can see that you have no firewood to keep at bay things you do not want keeping you company at night. I see no shelter, no weapon but for the blade on your waist, and not enough food. But more than all, if you are not careful, an army will be upon you soon; pray to whatever god that they get to you first before I do.’’

‘’Get to me, then. I am right here.’’

He arrested her with those icy-blues. ‘’Have those church bells gone off yet?’’

She wiped the blood on her fingers on his attire before uncurling to her full height. _I’m in charge here_. She squared her shoulders. _I have the advantage over this Viking_. Despite her braving words, a danger she was not at all acquainted with glimmered behind those long, spiky lashes, and for the life of her, Dhayl could not shake off the shivers that abraded her skin.

“It took me a long while before I could find your people, find you. Many a year I lost on my travels and searches to better myself so I could best face you. I have not come unprepared. I have come light. It only takes a slice from this knife that so feebly hangs from my waist to bleed you dry—and I will. You reign as a lawmaker, but disregard any law that befits your tastes not. It is alike cheap ale to your kind, the kind that abhors difference and demands beyond their proper share. You pillage and plunder, rape and defile, and steal what belongs to you not. Tell me one thing, Viking, and tell me this honestly if you value your life at all: a few years ago, your people fell upon my home in the Mediterranean alike a curse, and you took a girl by the name _Tanaruz_. Where _is_ she?”

It was quick as lightning, but the Viking’s brilliant eyes flashed with momentary sincerity before the expression fell away and confusion distorted his fine brows. He _knew_ something. Dhayl was sure of it. Hope, though she fought it, as it was too early, bloomed in her chest. “We are a people of trade and travel, that is our way. To be great and established, that is our way. To be violent and bloody, that is also our way. I know not of the girl you speak; many slaves came and left our country. Many slaves we traded to other neighbouring kingdoms. We do not keep record of each ones’ names. Perhaps you mistake us, mistake me, for another.”

“I do not!” Dhayl retaliated. “Do not take me for a fool; it is not the Vikings of _Kieven_ _Rus_ that came to us—they wouldn’t dare. Moreover, _they_ are better civilized than your people, as they established proper contract of trade with our Emir before they even considered shedding blood. Ubbe Lothbrok, son of the famous raider Ragnar Lothbrok, it is your brother, Bjorn Ironside, that lead the attack on Andalusia. Your younger brother, Hvitzerk, accompanied your travels, too. You desecrated our place of worship, burned our homes, and stole our children from us. Or do I have my facts wrong? I don’t need you to answer that—I know the answer. Now, one of the girls you took happens to be my sister. I’m sure she is a grown woman now, but taking in my appearance, as we do strikingly look more alike than not, you must recall someone of such similarity.”

“I commend your memory, but I do not.”

She grit her teeth. “Try.”

“Unbind me, and I will help you look for this sister of yours. Wherever it is that she may be. But you will not get anything out of me before that.”

Dhayl inched closer to him, and the Viking merely sniffed, gazing up at her and nonchalantly shifting the weight of his legs against the binding ropes. “It appears you value your life not.” Unsheathing the blade, she inched even closer. “Trade, you say, but you could not even trade innocent information to save your own life. I do not think you were fashioned for such deals.”

The Viking moved fast, striking his booted feet against her ankles and knocking her over. Before she could gather her bearings, a powerful kick to her temple sent her propelling to her side, and oblivion, with an overwhelming wave, washed over her as her lids fluttered shut.

* * *

UBBE worked with speed. With the tip of his boot, he kicked the blade that had fallen from her grasp closer to him. With much effort, he, with his feet and the slight bending of his knees, succeeded in planting it by his roped legs. A difficult feat, but not impossible. Striking fast and hard, he moved his ropes against its sharp side. When a few trusses fell apart, Ubbe, with a powerful flex from his legs, kicked outwards, the force of it breaking the rope completely from its sturdy bind.

Wiggling his legs free, he instead threw them over the female’s body and dragged her to him. Inch by inch, her body slid closer to his, dirt caking her dark curls and attire. When he had her where he wanted her, he used his legs to turn her from side to side, looking for the keys to the chains she must have. He didn’t find them.

Cursing under his breath, Ubbe worked against the iron locks and uncurled to his full height. By the time he did, his arms and back were burning from the chaffing they’d endured from both the chains and the tree. No matter, he’d known worse pains than these. These, being mere inconveniences. Gazing up, he noted the thinning of the tree’s trunk and deftly nodded.

Until he saw the thick branches extending from it. She’d chosen a good tree.

Gnashing his teeth, he fought against his likely fate, his exertions marring his body. He would uproot this tree if that was what was needed. For a long moment, he kept at it—until he came upon the realization that not only did the female bind him to a tree with chains, but bound him to a tree with _two_ thick chains, for no single chain could extend as long, and, thus, tutting a finger at even the slightest notion of escape entertaining his mind.

Resting his head against the trunk, Ubbe glanced up at the sky and shut his eyes—and laughed.

_Give me patience, All Father._


	2. Collision

Chapter II

Dhayl moaned awake, her vision drowsily settling on the night sky.

A pause.

 _Nightfall_. How long was she out? At that thought, she immediately straightened, though it pained her to do so, and turned over to regard the Viking king.

He sat faced away with one knee folded, his eyes studying his surroundings. Two things she noticed. One, he was unbound but still chained, and two, her dagger was missing. She made the connection well enough. He couldn’t escape—an impossibility catered by her—but he was more able than before. If before meant still knocking her out with his entire body detained. _Curse it_.

“Where is my dagger, Viking?” Warm blood trickled over her eye, and she gasped, touching her temple.

His head did not move, but his eyes shifted in her direction. So blue. Too blue. Even night could not cover them. As she soothingly wiped at her wound, she realized, after a few moments in silence, that he did not answer her question.

She came to her feet. “Where is it?”

“My brother, when young, was sent out into the wilderness to become a man. More a warrior than man. He killed a large bear with none to aid him, earning himself the nickname Ironside.”

“I don’t care for your brother.”

“My father did that to him, but he did not do that to me—he was too busy exiling himself—and so I did that to myself. I’ve haunted the most dangerous predators and worn their pelts in return.”

“I will not ask again.”

“Now,” he continued as though she had not been speaking this entire time. “Danger surrounds us, wild animals ready to tear us apart. But there’s one wondrous factor that plays in in the hunt these animals prepare for us—they will attack, but they will not attack one stronger than them.”

She knew what he meant by that: he was the stronger one. All beasts knew to be wary in his presence, for he’d butchered and taken out the best of them. Her? Well, she had trouble hunting even small rabbits. More due to her soft heart than her sheer talent in slaughtering an innocent. This Viking king was no innocent.

“Yes, you speak true—only if they are not ravenous. They will not kill you, not at first. But when they see you are not fighting back…now, that, knows a different tale. I will not release you. I, too, spoke true when I meant to cut you. I could leave you to the beasts and have them at you without lifting a dagger in your direction, _Budlungr_. And perhaps I should get busy doing so.”

A rough sound. Everything about this man seemed coarse, all the way to the lines etching his face, even the streak of blue runic inscriptions inking down the side of his face. “Release me and I will not only help you but also allow you free passage out of my land.”

She laughed, but it was mirthless. “After what I have done to you? You’ve struck down those with lesser transgressions. Give me my dagger.”

Twigs snapped in the near distance, diverting her attention for the briefest moment. Her heart picked up speed. Howls and wild growls drew close, and from behind woodland trees, drew even closer the large silhouettes of hazardous fiends. Though her eyes had gotten used to the dark, the canopy of branches shadowing the woods from the silvery moon aided little her inspection. She wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon.

As if reading her thoughts, the Viking offered, “You couldn’t have gotten too far. As I have said, the sun is different in this part of the world. I give you a choice, release me and I will help you fight them off. Don’t, and we both die. But you will not risk the latter, won’t you? This is as close as you come to getting answers. As close as you come to finding your sister. You are so desperate that you did not even light fire, something that would have kept these beasts at bay, solely because your whereabouts could be tracked from the sky.”

Dhayl clenched and unclenched her fist, considering his words at great length. She weighed her options, calculated the negatives as she did the positives, and at last thought best to survive. At least for the time being. She’d set him free. For now. But he was right in one regard: this, _he_ , was as close as she got to finding Tanaruz. She couldn’t allow her weeks of preparation to go to waste.

When the snarls neared, she acted quickly. Counting her steps from the tree, she traced her way to a spot, an act that had the Viking inclining his head in interest. On the tenth step, she stopped and dug deep the soil. When her fingers met iron, she unearthed the keys and backtracked to him.

He furrowed his brows before arching them in nonchalance. He didn’t care. But he should. The chains were not ordinary; they were forged in Damascus with a special kind of iron that could not be broken or melted. The only way to unchain him was with the keys in her hand, and she had buried them in the hopes that even when she was captured and killed for her acts, he would remain where he was, never to know freedom, only ever to know misery. None to find him, he would sooner rot where he sat than taste hope.

She had accounted for the rain that removed all traces of his kidnapping after she’d knocked him out; accounted for the chains to shackle him into eternity; accounted for her interrogation to inspire words from him true. Accounted for all but his resilience. He had knocked her out, stolen hours from her day, and now she was to never repeat that mistake again.

He was lethal. She knew that, but witnessing it first-hand was different.

“My dagger first.”

He regarded her briefly, before shuffling his legs and kicking her weapon in her direction. She clasped it, rounding on him and clicking open his chains. They fell away in heavy clanks.

Dhayl kept her dagger ready for any foul play as the Viking came to his feet, his height towering hers, the bulk of his form rippling. Suddenly, the howls stopped. The silhouettes disappeared. Even crickets stopped chirping. Her eyes narrowed before they widened. _Foolish Dhayl_.

She had made the biggest mistake of all as the true meaning of his words now rang in her ear: _they will attack, but they will not attack one stronger than them_. Correct in his words, the wild animals dared not advance, because at least they were intelligent enough to surmise they would not survive the ordeal. Now, here she stood, facing the wildest of the wildest beasts—Ubbe Lothbrok. She was in his terrain, his hunting ground. God, he was merely bidding his time.

Who would account for her?

She would fight, she then thought. She had to. For Tanaruz. For her family. She would spill Viking blood and take that with her into the Afterlife.

He squared his shoulders, but did not pounce. “Lower your weapon.”

She positioned herself. “Never.”

“I am Viking, yes, but even Vikings know honour.”

“I don’t believe you.”

He tilted his head a notch back to stare up at the sky, sniffed—and then pounced. Dhayl leaped out of the way, her boot sliding against the still wet soil. She straightened herself in time as he came for her again, and she raised her dagger high enough to slit his throat.

He ducked, his long braid whipping, and wrapped his arms around her waist, plummeting them both to the ground. The collision knocked the burning breath out of her lungs, his mass weighing on her causing even more damage. In her momentary unconscious state, he made quick work of her hold on her dagger, tossing it away, and shifted his weight on his elbow, his free hand coming to rest on her cheek.

A slight smack against them, meant to nudge, brought her out of the world of disorientation. She blinked, finding Norse blues gazing down at her. For the second time, she lost her breath, and it was neither in cause of his weight or some catastrophic impact. Perhaps she was still disoriented. Yes, that was it.

Another light smack.

She blinked anew, breathing heavy, bringing in air into her deflated lungs. Her mind cleared, as did her vision. “What?” she hissed.

He released a rough sound, nodding then.

Making sure he hadn’t killed her?

She slapped his hand away from her face and, with full-force, pushed at him, disrupting the weight on his elbow. He tumbled onto his back with a grunt, and for the shortest second, Dhayl thought he permitted the act. It mattered little. Grabbing his wrists, she locked them above his head, and placed her knees over his shoulders, evidently encaging him. He had nowhere to go. He bared his teeth, but not in anger. Or frustration. Just…simply, perhaps out of habit. She arched a brow down at him.

Something swam in his eyes, something this dark night could not blanket, and it provoked a reaction from her. A reaction she herself had not anticipated. Her cheeks…reddened? No!

A sliver of a shine from the corner of her eye caught her attention. The second she looked at it, the Viking did too, before their eyes came back to each other.

It was her dagger.

One heartbeat. Two heartbeats. Three hear— _Now_!

Dhayl abruptly leapt off him—but he tripped her ankle before she could make a run for it. Air, for the third time, escaped her, and she cursed. He was already on his feet. Gathering her wits about her, she ran at him, wishing to topple him, distort his balance, anything, but what she did not expect was him scooping her up mid-way onto his shoulder, and with such ease and agility, it should have been impossible.

She screamed despite herself. “Release me!”

He did not.

Instead, he crouched and slid her dagger in his boot. The bastard! That was hers!

“You will pay for this!”

“I have no doubt of that,” rang his voice with a lilt of mockery.

She worked her jaw, and swore a silent oath to herself.

Blood rushed to her head, her ears. Her open wound at her temple. Before he properly began walking through the woods, the rushing blood slowly but surely began seeping out, leaving an unseen trail of red in the darkness. The act brought drowsiness back into her system, and though she tried to fight it, as she tried to fight the Viking’s grip on her legs, she succumbed into the awaiting hands of unconsciousness.

Within a heartbeat, she was dead out.

* * *

To the warm, delicious smell of food and crackling firewood, Dhayl awoke. A cocooning softness and broad daylight enveloped her as she cracked her lids open. For a moment, a long moment, she remained cradled so, sighing, knowing nothing, acknowledging nothing. This was a little bit of heaven she had been estranged from for _years_. Silence, but a comfortable one where no danger lurked in the near distance. _Safety_. Wait.

 _Danger_. _Ubbe_.

At that word and name, the momentary illusion broke away and her little heaven turned into pure hell. She jerked upright, for a second losing all sense of self as her stitched temple hammered with fervour and her vision blackened. _No, no, I can’t be here_ , she thought, trying to find the floor with her tapping feet—that were bare, she now realized.

When she refocused, she was inside a bedchamber, sitting on a bed of thick, soft pelts, wearing nothing but a linen nightgown. Nightgown! Where were her boots? Her clothes? _Who_ undressed her?

Hugging her chest, she jumped down the bed and onto a flooring of more pelts and plush carpets. Carpets that, upon quick inspection, resembled that of the Mediterranean households. _Couldn’t be_. Shaking her head, she noted instead that she was alone in the bedchamber and that she should escape before anyone took notice of her wakefulness.

There were curtains and beads separating her room from a larger one, and she drew them aside, her nerves on a spike. She stepped out, letting the materials fall into place. It was both a kitchen and living space with food being prepared in a cauldron by the hearth. There was another room opposite the kitchen, perhaps leading to a washroom, she didn’t know, but she approached the cauldron and inhaled the meal being prepared.

It was hot, steamy, and… _sublime_. Her stomach rumbled, her heart yearned, but she swallowed her hunger and turned around—only to come face to face with a servant girl emerging from the opposite room. She carried a cup of water in her hands.

“Don’t move,” Dhayl hastily let out, reaching for the knife resting on the table with fresh meat and vegetables. The servant girl’s grasp on the cup wobbled, her eyes wide.

“I-I was only brought here to prepare food. P-Please.”

“I don’t care, don’t speak. Don’t move and don’t speak. Yes.” Dhayl’s eyes lowered on the girl’s boots. “Give them to me.”

The girl’s eyes followed hers, and she nodded, though with hesitation. “They are yours.”

Slipping out of them, she tossed them to her. Dhayl wore them, knife still slanted in her direction, and felt her toes curl. They were a bit small but they would do. “Thank you,” she said. “I’m going to leave and you’re going to stay, is that understood? Don’t follow me.”

The girl nodded anew.

Keeping her back to the door, she walked to it, her eyes on the servant, before breaking into a run and bursting out of the house—and right into a group of talking men. She gasped aloud.

The one in the middle, with his pelted back and thoroughly braided hair to her, stiffened and tilted his head sideways.

Her honey-coloured eyes clashed with familiar icy blues. _Ubbe_.

In response and out of habit, her own head tilted in recognition of his face. Then, she pointed the knife at him. The men around him laughed in amusement, some even whistled.

“A slave with enough wits to strike her master?” one jeered. “I want her warming my bed, Ubbe.”

Dhayl was so taken aback by his words that she remained paralyzed in place for a many heartbeats. _Slave._ He’d just said slave. Tears welled in her eyes, stinging them, scalding them in the wintery chill of the morning.

“I’m not a slave,” she spoke evenly, quietly. “I’m no one’s slave. I’m not a slave!” she then screamed. “I will never be one! With what right!”

_Calm. Calm, Dhayl. Don’t give in to fear. Don’t give in to mania._

Ubbe turned fully around, regarding her still with his head tilted. “She is from the Mediterranean, but now she is in Viking land. Frankly, you are what I say you are.”

“I _spit_ on that.”

Ubbe started, his head moving a notch back, as though he did not expect to hear such intense rebuttal of his words. His eyes steeled thereafter.

His men also straightened a little at her statement, as though she was ludicrous to even be raising her head in level with Ubbe’s. He was their king, yes, but he was not hers.

“You offered me safe passage from your lands,” she reminded him. “I want it.”

“Hm. Now you want it.” The Viking ran his tongue over his teeth that seemed a bit too sharp, and entertained the ground for a moment before arresting her in place. “But when I offered, you laughed. You did not believe. And now, having lost, you point a flimsy knife in my way. I do not know you, but you are adamant on seeing me dead. If I’m not mistaken, that is treason.”

Her grip on the knife began to shake. She tilted her chin up. _Be brave_. “Will you kill me? Punish me? _Enslave_ me, as your people have done mine? Does memory serve you so little?”

He clasped his hands in a kingly manner before his body, eyeing yet once more the ground. His men regarded him in silence, their eyes shifting from him to her, her to him. He cared not to answer her questions; they mattered not to him.

“Punish her first by cutting off that tongue of hers. Then enslave her, doing with her life as you wish. Only when old age comes to her, take a blade to her throat and slit it open. That should teach her something,” one of his men offered, eyes burning with indignation.

“Perhaps you should come here and do that yourself and I can take the liberty of shutting your mouth for you, _heathen_ ,” Dhayl retorted before she could stop herself.

“You dare—!” he started.

There was rich laughter, full of amusement, fully regaled. Her eyes found Ubbe, his head still downcast, chuckling.

“My men,” he swiftly turned on his heels, roughly patting their shoulders, “my good advisors. You are dismissed. Go and drink.”

“Ubbe…” one countered.

He didn’t have to speak; something authoritative shifted the very air, and their dissents stifled out. With begrudging nods, they obeyed, dispersing in every direction. He then came to her, not at all minding her outstretched knife.

“Put that away, you’re embarrassing yourself,” he muttered close to her, his hand snaking around her nape and turning her towards the door.

“What—!” she sputtered, trying to but failing to stop him.

They entered the house with a loud bang, her being ushered in at the forefront, with Ubbe following close behind. “Your knife,” he gruffly voiced to the servant girl, gripping it out of Dhayl’s fingers and throwing it point-forth on the table. It fastened with a sharp, swift clank. “Don’t lose it next time.”

“Y-Yes.”

“Food?”

“Ready.”

“Serve us then leave.”

“Yes.”

Unceremoniously planting her down on one of the chairs by the table, he went to the hearth, feeding it more logs. He stayed there poking at the embers until the fire blazed with ferocity. She had been too immersed in her rather peculiar examination of the Viking that she had failed to register the act of the girl having already served her and taken her leave. Without her shoes.

Only when the Viking settled himself opposite her, making for the wooden spoon, did he raise his head from his meal and regard in incredulity. His hand lamely gestured at her bowl of soup. “Eat,” he roughly initiated, having failed to understand her pause.

She suddenly blinked at him, snapping out of her reverie. Her eyes fell on her food, the act hiding the evident reddening of her face. What was the matter with her?

With a tentative swallow, she plopped her spoon in and gathered soup. When she ate, the warmth and taste of it filling her mouth and coating her tongue, Dhayl couldn’t help but silently start to sob. She wished to gain a better grip of herself but failed rather miserably. She inched her head lower and palmed her forehead to then hide better her tears.

The Viking took no notice that throughout the remainder of their meal, she couldn’t stop her silent tears. She couldn’t have. The meal reminded her of home, of her mother, her father, her sister. Home, something she hadn’t known for a long, long time. Everything she’d wanted but hadn’t got, it was all in here, in this small bowl of soup.

When they were finished, she made a mental note to give back the servant girl her boots.

Sniffling, she wiped her tear-stained cheeks with the backs of her hands, and lifted her head to meet the Viking’s gaze. He slid the bowl aside and leaned forward, his arms propped on the table, his scent, wild and smoky, filling her nostrils.

His eyes, ever intense in their colour, considered her face, her puffed cheeks, her reddened lips from her biting of them to stop the escaping of sobs, and came away with…nothing. If he noticed anything amiss in her demeanour, he did not say it, did not show it. In the quiet of the cabin, he watched her.

Then, “How is your head?”

“G-Good,” she croaked. Then quickly cleared her throat. _How embarrassing_. “Good. How is yours?”

A rough sound, then the shrugging of broad shoulders. “Better.”

She nodded.

Silence.

“Why am I here?” she asked. “Why am I alive? Why are you feeding me? Clothing me, even when I’d really like my old attire back? Why have you mended my wound, allowed me rest? What do you hope to gain? I have nothing to give you.”

“No,” he disagreed. “You have much to give me, if you proof yourself useful.”

“Why ever would I do that?”

Gazing into his eyes for such a long period of time was a feat she thought she could not undertake, but the more she stared, the more entranced she became. Perhaps a trick of his?

“I want you to tell me how long it has been since you were last in the Mediterranean.”

Dhayl frowned, not diverting her attention from him. Somehow, her heart began to pick up speed. “I wouldn’t know,” she whispered. “I lost count after the third year.”

Ubbe blinked. “It does not take long to reach our shores. Not even on foot.”

“No, it doesn’t.” She licked her lips, glancing down at the table and playing with the end of her wooden spoon. “I fell sick a lot. Recovering was no easy feat. I…I came upon a people that were rather…not nice. Um.” The discomfort was clear in her tone, so she moved on. “I had some of my belongings stolen from me, more than once, hence I lost my way quite a few times. Nearly died. A lot.” She stopped the fidgeting of her spoon. “I don’t know the nature of your questions, but, yes, there were some inconveniences I had to overcome before I landed on Anglo-Saxon soils. Are you content?”

“No. Tell about the chains you used on me. My blacksmiths are all in awe.”

Ah. “A special kind. Made only in Damascus.”

Ubbe covered more of the space between them as he leaned further in, brows twisting. “By the Silk Road?”

She smiled. “Yes. Traders rest there before venturing either across the Mediterranean or through the many Khanates to China.”

“Khanates? Where is that?”

“Not where, but who. They are clans found in the heart of the Silk Road. Beautiful people with wonderful crafts regarding science, astrology, medicine, mathematics. The list goes on. The trade is strong there.”

Deftly nodding, he took hold of the knife and pointed it at her, but not in a threatening manner. He was merely toying with it for his own comfort, it appeared. She wondered if he knew he even reached for it. “You were going to leave me to my death even if I had answered your questions in the woods, is that not correct?”

Dhayl arched a sturdy brow at him. “Perhaps. I don’t harbour warm feelings towards you.”

“Hm.”

She then frowned, catching onto what he said. “What do you mean if you had answered my questions? Did you…not answer my questions?”

“In due time. Now, have you been there, among these Khanates?”

She chose to indulge him. “I truly have.”

“How so?”

Remembering hurt, and her mood grew solemn. “My father was a merchant. His craft lay in steel. As a little girl, I used to accompany him in his travels.”

“And you remember your travels well?”

“Yes. Why would I forget? They were the best times of my life.”

“Hm. Does he trade still?”

“No, he rests peacefully in his grave after the pillaging of my home by your people. As does my mother. As do my friends. Are you done?”

Ubbe fell silent. The knife in his hand stopped twisting. “I want you to know that it has been many years since my people established trade with yours in the Mediterranean. Our routes have also extended to the Kieven Rus. Nothing is as it was in the past.”

Dhayl sat shocked, her jaw slacked open. “No.” She shook her head. “Why would my people… After what your people have done… No, you are lying. We would never.”

“Look around you. Do you not feel as though you have not walked these carpets before? Tasted these spices? Your Emir conceded. There is contract between us. You have been gone a very long time from your home.”

Bile rose to choke her. Her world shifted from under her very feet. Understanding evaded her. Everything she had been burning for, was now snuffed out under a functioning contract. What of all the dead? Would they not be avenged? Or would they be forgotten, rendered nameless, as though they’ve never been, just so trade could flourish?

Was she terrible for abhorring such thought?

Would there be no justice for the slaughtered, the defiled, the enslaved?

“I want you to understand the contract conditions the act of trading back the people we have taken from your lands,” the Viking said. “It is a new age, wanderer. And you are not a slave here, but you have acted upon independent attempts to take the life of a Viking king. That is unlawful in any land. I can enslave, punish, or prosecute you accordingly.”

“So our Emir bribed his people back.” The bile in her throat only thickened.

“Call it however you might. We have learned much from your people, as you have from ours. Raiding _is_ our way. But with trade, there is no need for such battle.”

 _Yes_. She understood that all too well.

“I saw your eyes in the woods…when I asked about Tanaruz. You know something. Was she traded back?”

“No.”

She shut her eyes. “Tell me,” she whispered.

Ubbe nodded, his gaze burning blue holes in hers. “My uncle, Floki, and his wife, Helga, adopted her after our raid in the Mediterranean. Helga loved her, but Tanaruz abhorred her all the same. She escaped many times, was caught all the same—until our next raid, when she killed Helga then killed herself.”

Dhayl released a horrified gasp, her hands immediately covering her face. She hadn’t noticed it, but she had already begun crying at the mention of her name. For a long moment, she sat there sobbing, her heart incapable of accepting the reality painted before her. Tanaruz would never… Her little sister was good… She would never.

But the fear she must have felt, the horror that came with being alone, so alone, that the only way out in her little mind was through death and only death, tormented her musings. Her baby sister killed herself. At that, she sobbed harder. Her baby sister killed herself!

A wail tore from her lungs. “She was a child,” she said, rising to shaky legs. “She was a child!” she screamed. “She was a child! What is wrong with you people? Why would you take— How could you—!” She screeched in her fury, in her mourning, in her love, and toppled everything on the table to the ground.

Ubbe remained seated, not a reaction from him. That infuriated her further. “Out!” She pointed at the door. “Get out! Get out! Get out! I want you out! I hate you! All of you!”

He gradually came to his feet. Dhayl fumed, glaring at him. Then, with all her might, she flipped the table over. It crashed onto the floor. “ _Fine_. No _out_ for you.”

At the animalistic growl in her words, the Viking offered her his first reaction—intrigue.

 _Cruel_.

“You are cruel people.”

“No less than your people.”

“Don’t you _dare_. As far as I can see, my people did not kill yours.”

“No, but they have done so others. Your Emir even dines on human flesh. But that is the way of the world, wanderer. We just don’t hide it.”

“Is that the Viking honour you so fondly spoke of earlier?”

“It goes beyond honour, beyond loyalty. It _is_ our way.”

“Your way has children kill themselves.”

Ubbe was silent. She had struck a sensitive nerve. “That is true. Our way has killed even our own broods. It is most unfortunate; I cannot take back what was done. I cannot undo the past. But I know Helga loved her. I know her to be of the best people. She was a good woman. In the time she spent her life here, not once did harm befall your sister. She was fed, clothed, but mostly loved. In her honour, for you, I offer to the gods a sacrifice tonight. There shall be blood, and there shall be fire. Mourn her well tonight, and then bury her.”

Dhayl was too stricken with overwhelming emotions at his words, at the meaning behind them, all confounding, all heart-wrenching, that she remained where she stood even as he bypassed her and exited through the door.


	3. Sacrifice

CHAPTER III

Ubbe lounged at the head of the feasting table, his warriors accompanying him. They drank and ate, various subjects their intrigue, but nothing intrigued him more than the dagger he inspected in his hand. He craned it sideways, examining its keenness, before flattening it, the pads of his fingers smoothly ghosting over the foreign writings that had gold melted into them.

“You are too light on her,” spoke Gorm, a comrade with a cavernous scar slashing over his features, to his right, and so lowly, only he could hear it. Ubbe grimaced, but not at his man, rather at the blade. At another new discovery he did not understand. The steel was different; it was lighter yet sharper, narrower yet unyielding all the same, as he firmly pressed it. Ubbe knew his weapons—he crafted his own swords, blades, and arrows. This was different. Similar to the chains, this blade contained unknown factors. It was a strong, patterned, oddly so, and strange weapon. He had never seen anything like it.

“Ubbe,” Gorm forced under his breath.

“Look at it.” He thrusted it under his nose. Gorm gave it a thoughtless onceover, muttering, “A blade. I may carry a scar, but my eyes do not fail me. Yet.”

Ubbe grunted a disagreement. “It is no ordinary blade.” Unsheathing his own dagger from the back of his waist, he compared them side by side. The woman’s dagger easily bested his. Excellent workmanship. She did say her father made trade by steel.

“Not only that, but you make sacrifice to the gods, _our_ gods, for her. She does not hold our beliefs, but strikes our king, a Ragnarsson, of all men, and you toast her! The gods loved your father, love you, but you insult them by offering sacrifice for one who wished you harm.”

Ubbe, elbows propped on the table, wrists upturned as his eyes kept their studying of the blades, merely said, “Yes.” Then, putting away the weapons, he lazed back, his posture nonchalant, but still governing, as he eyed Gorm. “It will be good sacrifice. All gods love a good sacrifice.”

His man leaned into his armrest. “And if you still anger the gods?”

Ubbe held his gaze in perpetual silence, and only released it when a man entered upon their feast and trod to his seat. “What did you find?” he asked. The man greeted his king before putting on the table a satchel. It was dark and worn-out. Ubbe leaned forward, his mass shifting.

“There was a small tent hidden in the trees close to the Selwood forest. This is all of it,” his best hunter provided.

Everybody had a hiding spot, especially a woman who sharpened a blade for a king’s head, and Ubbe knew she had set it somewhere nearby. She must have had if she came to him with only a dagger and wit. It was only a matter of time before it revealed itself. He nodded, linking their arms and shaking. “You did well. Go and feast, Svend.”

“Thank you, Ubbe.” With that, he joined his brethren.

Pushing off his seat, he flipped open the satchel and drew out prized possessions. Tied scrolls, some dried meat and water, and healing ointment. Unscrewing the vessel, he sniffed inside, and winced. True to her word, she did travel light. He found nothing else. Brows furrowing, he nudged at the scrolls with a flick of his forefinger, causing them to shift a bit, and untied them. They came away with a lazy roll, splaying out on the table.

Writings, similar to those on the dagger, inked across the pages. They stretched, formed circles, flicked upward. He knew not her language, but she spoke his well. Too well. He flipped through them, examining the nimble strokes of penmanship, before halting on the map drawn at the bottom of the third page. His grin was rough around the edges. _There it is_.

The following four pages contained various routes, lands and landmarks, bodies of water, and more inked writings.

“The Khanates she spoke of, they are in here. This piece of land,” he pointed, “is China. I know it well from our own maps. But these…” He waved to the land next to it. “And these…” To the massive quantities of lands below the Mediterranean, going even further down than known Damascus, he said, “We need to know what they are.”

Gorm loomed over his shoulder, intensely paying heed to the pages. “The world is vast, yes…unless she lies. We must know for certain.”

Ubbe nodded, then landed a pat on his back. “Prepare for the sacrifice.”

Gorm wished to speak, but, with the removal of the scrolls and the departing from the table, Ubbe was already inconsolable.

* * *

“I will not wear that.” The woman, whose name he did not know, turned from him, her many curls bouncing down her back. They were dark and glossed, and distracting—if one stared long enough.

Ubbe inhaled, catching whiff of wild berries in the air, and threw the white gown on the furred bed. He placed himself next to it thereafter. “During this sacrifice, you will.”

“I don’t want your sacrifice. I want to leave, seeing that nothing holds me here.”

“I hold you here.”

“Yes, against my will, at that. The guard outside is wasted on me. If you are to exact punishment, do so now before you miss such chance.”

Ubbe arched a brow. She did not see it, but she must have felt it, because she sighed, twirling around to face him anew. With eyes as brown as woodland trees, her lashes equally as dark and long, her brows equally as strong in colour and delicate in their arches, she truly was a sight to behold. Add to that lips fleshly and plump, skin sun-kissed and soft, and body slim but curvy in all the right places, and he wouldn’t deign surprise if one of his men asked to bed her. She would have a line of suitors promising a good evening, maybe many good evenings, if she allowed half such chance.

It was only after a long moment he realized they were wordlessly staring at each other. She’d taken him in as he’d done her. Her cheeks filling with colour, as if she, too, had come to the same awareness, she tipped her head away. She happened to do that a lot, even when they were eating. But, then, it was her tears she hid, not the colour in her cheeks. He hadn’t known any man or shield-maiden to cry during meals simply in cause of their tastes, but then again, he hadn’t known many who bore sadder eyes.

“Anyway. I don’t want to wear that. It’s too thin.”

“You will be given a pelted cloak and proper boots. I’m sure those hurt you.” He gestured at her feet that ever so often staggered.

Wrapping her arms around her midriff, she twitched her nose, as if deciding. Her attendance wasn’t up for negotiation, but he indulged her small acts of self-comfort.

“My dagger…do you still have it?”

“Yes.”

Her head snapped in his direction. “I’m the wrong person to loot. More, that dagger holds much importance to me than it ever will you. I request you give it to me.”

“I have decided I liked it.”

He swore that if she had not stopped herself in time, those staggering feet would have stomped on the floor in frustration. “Fine. When I finally possess it and slit your throat in your sleep, don’t be surprised.”

With a sharp grunt, Ubbe came to his feet, crowding in on her before she could react. As his height engulfed hers, his shadow swallowing her frame, the strange scent of those wild berries thickened. He ignored it. But no matter her disposition, the evident widening of her eyes, she chinned up at him with a glaze of defiance in her stance. He didn’t know whether to feel pity or admiration. She spoke true in the woods—he had cut down those with lesser transgressions. The only reason why he allowed her petulance was because her insight on matters foreign to him intrigued him. He was always a curious man, and he’d done wonders with it.

He already planned a suitable punishment for her unpardonable deeds. “You will ready yourself, and then you will join us in the sacrifice. Afterwards, you will tell me all you know about the lands you drew in your little maps, as well as the material of your dagger, how it was forged, and where. If necessary, by whom.”

The utter disbelief in her gasp instigated a coarse smile from him. “How did you—“

“I will send servants to help wash and prepare you.”

Her eyes steeled. “I can wash myself, Viking.”

More due to habit than anything else, his hand came up to pat her on the cheek. She slapped it away, but Ubbe merely laughed, already turning to exit.

“One way or another, I will get my dagger back! And you will regret ever taking it! Ever letting me live!” she shouted behind him. He didn’t care a response as he strode out.

* * *

Dhayl, much to her dismay, was washed, dried, adorned in the finest furs and pelts, and ushered out of her cabin when night fell and the crescent moon along with the bright stars hung in the sky. Upon her exit, cold air, nipping and blowing with specks of ice, abraded her revealed cheeks.

Her body released a tremor, and she inhaled deeply, braving herself for what was to come.

By her cabin, waiting with a few men, was Ubbe, his own pelted cloak cascading down his height and broad shoulders. He was faced away from her, but when she came to his side, he splayed his fingers just below her nape and began guiding her, as though he’d been aware of her presence all along.

What an odd man. What an odder offering. She didn’t know what to make of it; the entire day, she had been numb, awake but seeing nothing. Her tears refused to come. Her heart clenched resolutely in her chest, not daring another rip. But when he’d visited her, she was content to know that not all feeling had left her. She still knew him abhorrence, and that would never change.

Leading her through shadowed people, their eyes invisible but their murmurs ever abundant, a sudden ferocious roar tore through the night. It increased in volume the more steps they conquered. In trepidation, her legs faltered. She looked up at Ubbe.

He shimmering blues settled on her, but he said nothing.

As the crowd broke apart for them, Dhayl learned _what_ roared so mightily in the night. Coming face to face with the largest fire she had ever seen in her life, she grinded to a halt. Ubbe did not push her further. It was a never-ending blaze as it licked and hissed into the sky itself, its heat swarming her, burning her. Drums started to beat, murmurs turned to cackles, chants to howls, and the night came alive with runic music.

Slowly, as though to not provoke it, she found herself circling the hissing monstrosity, her eyes ever transfixed, ever bewitched. They found Ubbe’s in the distance, and her breathing faltered, before deepening. Smoke scorched through her throat, her lungs.

What would he do?

How did these people sacrifice? _What_ did they sacrifice?

The red-hued fingers of the fire caressed his features, sharpening them, shadowing them, and it caressed those eyes, those austere eyes, and they shone more brilliant in the maddening flames.

Suddenly, from behind him, the crowd dispersed, allowing a cloaked man to guide a large horse through. The air in her lungs turned to ice.

Ubbe caressed its head, calming it, before the cloaked man proceeded forward. His gaze, sharp and cerulean, easily arrested hers. Breath caught in her throat. Chimes resounded. Drums beat. Men sang, women danced. The fire burned ever higher.

_This is for you_ , read his eyes.

_No_.

The cloaked man slit the horse’s throat, and blood burst out, some of it even splashing on Ubbe. He didn’t seem to mind. The animal neighed before succumbing to death, its blood filling the large bowl seated on the ground. Dhayl trembled before such ghastly sight.

When all blood left the animal, Ubbe was handed the bowl as the cloaked man prayed onto the gods, asking for good fortune, wealth, and voyage. She didn’t know where. Head tilted, Ubbe covered the steps separating them, and her hands abruptly fisted, blanching of all colour.

The feeling he inspired with his stride was anything but kind. It was _raw_. Primal.

Everything about this sacrifice was grotesque. Animalistic. So foreign, she lost herself, her thoughts, in terrible ways she didn’t know she could.

Coming to a stop before her, the bowl of hot blood between them, Ubbe raised it to her chin. Her lower lip wobbled. She was afraid of what he was going to ask of her. The blood _reeked_.

Much to her relief, he instead submerged his hand in the bowl—before bringing it up and cupping her forehead. She parted her lips in protest, but he dragged his fingers down the slopes of her features, leaving warm streaks of red on her flesh. Blood was all she could see, all she could smell.

Dhayl could only stand and stare.

Searing heat enveloped her fingers, unclenching them, and she realized it was his hand. He did with her fingers what he’d done with his, submerging them in the bowl of crimson, but this time, blood was due on his face. His hot breath tickled her revealed wrist as he held it aloft. Tentatively swallowing, she allowed her fingers to paint his features, as he’d done hers, and made to move away—until he caught them.

“What are you—“

The tip of his tongue darted out, and Dhayl gasped at what next took place. He licked the blood from her palm to her forefinger, and then guided her thumb into the steamy cavern of his mouth. He laved at it, giving it a gentle suck. _Stop_ , she wished to voice, but voiced nothing. In the manner he moved that tongue on her skin, tantalizingly, wickedly, he surely must have felt the increase of her pulse in the wrist he held. Her cheeks reddened, her lashes fluttering.

Then, just as quickly, he released her, instead choosing to focus on something behind her. Whatever it was, he conceded to it with the leisure blink of his eyes.

Dhayl found hands snaking over her shoulders, grasping at her cloak, tearing it away. She couldn’t digest anything anymore. All she recognized was her own state, vulnerable but for the white gown she had been advised to put on. Even as cold air pinched at her, the fire made quick to chase it away.

“What is to happen now?” she whispered.

His lashes lowered, the spikes casting long spindly shadows on his cheeks. Just like before, he didn’t answer her. Instead, he moved behind her.

Her eyes followed him.

“Ubbe?”

Lifting the bowl, he poured it from her left shoulder to her right, completely soaking her in sacrificial blood. Dhayl jerked in response to the hot blood washing down her spine, chest and belly, and trickling down her shins to her boots, soiling the land she stood upon.

The screams grew ever violent around her, the crowd bleeding into a blur of dancing limbs and chaos.

The Viking’s hot breath suddenly ghosted over her ear. “This is your night, wanderer. Let go—and enjoy.”

She shifted to peer at him. To understand. His fingers, then knuckles, skidded over her stained cheeks, her bloodied jaw, before burying themselves deep in her curls, cupping the back of her head. Such intimate acts, such open displays of tenderness, and Dhayl still failed to gauge his true intentions. Were they all as ruthlessly vulnerable, as raw in emotion, during their sacrifices?

The pad of his thumb grazed her lower lip ever so slightly, just enough to incite a tickling, burning sensation, before he pulled away completely, taking with him his touch, his heat. His scent. Without another word, he turned and bled into the crowd, leaving her.

No matter how hard she searched, she couldn’t find him. It was only her and the fire. _No_ , she then corrected. _Her_ fire. This was her night. Her mourning. Her burial.

Her eyes came to settle on the dancing flames, and the more she stared, the more her eyes mirrored its infernos, until her heart beat in her ears and breath burned in her throat. In the night, amidst howling screams and beating drums, amidst chaotic unity and dark blood, amidst strangers and stranger songs, Dhayl shut her eyes—and allowed her heart to chance that final rip.

Tears rushed to her eyes, choking her, and she cried. And cried, and cried, and cried. Her chin fell to her chest, and then her body to her knees, before she fell forward and fisted the soil in her agony. Thunder boiled in her blood, caging her, setting her free, or maybe it was all her, she couldn’t tell. She quietly wailed—wailed for her sister, her mother, her father.

Herself, until her cries became one with the fire.

But no one heard her.

Because this was her night. Only hers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it has been utterly dramatic, ngl, but with dhayls circumstances, that girl just attracts Needs her Drama ya know. i hope no one takes offence at the description of the sacrifice, but the vikings tv show is rarely historically accurate, so pls no flame i tried. anyway, heres to more coming soon!

**Author's Note:**

> more to come soon!


End file.
